


the definition of ocean hearts

by the_mixed_up_files_of_me



Category: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (2018), The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society - Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows
Genre: F/M, I don't think that I've ever written anything this fluffy before, I love them so much, pure fluff, these two are so in love oh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 17:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15635136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_mixed_up_files_of_me/pseuds/the_mixed_up_files_of_me
Summary: change[CHānj]VERB• make or become different.She does not know his face, she does not know the colour of his eyes, but she knows his stories and the pieces of himself that he writes into every letter.All of this feels more personable than any face she has ever seen or hand she has ever shaken.





	the definition of ocean hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> If you haven't read this book, I completely recommend it! It is one of my favourite books ever. I watched the movie adaption and it is absolutely wonderful. Getting to see my literary OTP on screen is so amazing <3
> 
> Happy reading! <3

**change**   
_[CHānj]_

_VERB  
• make or become different._

Life outside of her circle in London seems to be a fantastical improbability.

Then he writes. And she writes back.

His words do not change the world but they change the world inside of her.

Some part of Juliet is hooked onto the repetitive question, _is it possible to belong to someone before you've met them?_ She does not know his face, she does not know the colour of his eyes, but she knows his stories and the pieces of himself that he writes into every letter.

All of this feels more personable than any face she has ever seen or hand she has ever shaken.

\---

**aesthete**   
_[ˈesˌTHēt]_

_NOUN  
• a person who has or affects to have a special appreciation of art and beauty._

Taking walks together after she arrives in Guernsey is something of a habit now. If Kit is with them, Dawsey takes them through town and to the sandy crescent moon of a shoreline. If Kit stays with Amelia, Dawsey guides Juliet over the rocky outcroppings and cliffs, where the wind is so strong, where the air is so buoyant that each breath feels as though she is floating higher and higher. Standing on the weathered stones above the sea, Juliet's skin tingles, her nerves are on fire, her eyes make the stars jealous and Dawsey is afraid to stare at her for too long or he will get swept away by something more powerful than the crushing waves beneath them.

Dawsey knows every detail, every flower and grain of sand on the island, so he tells her about them. To have someone with you who will notice one particular cloud in the entire, arcing sky is a rare thing and Juliet grows more aware of this every walk they take together. She asks questions, every question she can think of because hearing his voice and what he has to say means more than he is perceptive of. After spending most of his life being a silent admirer and lover, he never imagined anyone viewing what he had to say with any particular consequence.

Writing to her was such a far more easy pathway of communication; he forgets what he's saying and he stumbles and he's nervous and Juliet listens with complete attentiveness.

Finally, he admits as they traverse the damp sand, "I'm better at writing than talking."

"You're wonderful," is Juliet's impulsive, flushed response before she swiftly adds, "It is strange...and special, our relationship, because we know each other so well, for so long, yet we only met face to face a few weeks ago. I am sure that this awkwardness, if you can call it that, will fade."

It does. It fades away with the tide, out to sea and like the many bottles that that the ocean carries away, their hesitation washes away and disappears from view.

\---

**serein**   
_[suh-ran]_

_NOUN  
• fine rain falling after sunset from a sky in which no clouds are visible._

  
The engagement ring he buys her is simple. She wouldn't want it any other way. It does not weigh down her finger, it feels as though it is an extension of herself that has always been there.

The ring is pressing gently into his shoulder, his hand cups her waist with a natural fit. He mirrors her steps as she smoothly glides to the side, forward and to the side again.

She asks him with a trace of doubt, "You're sure that you've never danced before?"

Dawsey shakes his head, shy smile on his lips, mild warmth simmering in his gaze. "No, I haven't."

"You're wonderful."

The two words turn the wood floorboards into sand, the ceiling into sky and the walls into the sea as the memory of when she first said those two words floods his memory.  
  
"I remember when you first said that to me," he murmurs.

"Me too. Things did change that day," is Juliet's hushes agreement. Her breaths are broken across the skin of his clavicle, his jawline as she lifts her head to meet his eyes.

Entwining fingers, they guide themselves out to the garden to see the sunset over the iridescent waves. Another habit that they never want to break. Breathing in the salty air, Juliet lifts Dawsey's arm and turns a lazy spin.

She's lavender in the dim lighting, lavender and glowing with laughter. Barefoot, windswept hair, a smile so magnificent that not even the rising moon and all of its glory can distract Dawsey's gaze.

Something begins to dot her skin, her arms and the grass beneath her feet. Lifting her head, kisses of rain dot her face, slide down her cheekbones. "It's raining," she announces in surprised pleasure.

"Is it?" was the distracted reply, before the realisation of, "Oh, it is raining."

"It's _lovely_."

"I've always though rain is."

"Everyone complains about the rain in England," Juliet remarks, "but I think it cleanses everything. It makes everything new and beautiful. It's one of the few things that can be so dismal and so incredibly refreshing at the same time."

Dawsey is in his usual state of quiet appreciation. "That's beautifully put, Juliet."

"I could put it more beautifully if I had a typewriter nearby," she wryly responded, "but it wouldn't last long in the rain."

Drawing closer to him, she slides her arms around his waist and under his jacket. She can breathe in his scent, it's interwoven between the soft cotton fibres of his shirt; it's fresh air, a trace of her own rose perfume.

And home.

He asks her if she'd like to go back inside where it's warmer.

"Just a moment more," she replies, a few words taken away by the gusty breeze, "I very much like this moment right now and I would hate to move on from it."

  
\---

**inevitable**   
_[inˈevidəb(ə)l]_

_ADJECTIVE  
• certain to happen; unavoidable._

  
Here. Now. This is where she feels she has always been meant to be.

In his arms, soft bedsheets, early morning sunlight? Inevitable.

Some part of her feels that when she saw her name in his handwriting, he wrote down a part of her heart too.

Closing her eyes, she lets the pool of golden sunlight warm her features.

Falling in love with someone is a terrifying thing because when she proposed, Dawsey could have said no. That breath before he said _yes, god, of course yes_ , was when she realised how deeply she has fallen in love with him— in that moment, she realised the gravity of what would happen if he said no.

Loving him is handing him her heart and saying, "Here, keep this safe for me?"

And he gave her his; she keeps it in her hands, it colours in her words when she writes.

She is words, he is pages; bound together, they are complete.

Complete and inevitable.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment or kudos <3


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